


Silver

by Lobel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Canon Divergence, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Politics, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobel/pseuds/Lobel
Summary: When the planets regained what they had lost, they would see the Empire as a true ally. Their loyalty would be stronger than their fear of Lotor’s father. They would view the Empire as a liberator, a gateway to better life. They would believe they ruled themselves, free of influence, and they wouldn’t consider the possibility their leaders weren’t truly of their choosing. Why look for problems when the food and trees and children were growing?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Silver

As Emperor Pro Tempore, Lotor finally could play his long-held plans of unifying his Empire through fierce loyalty. Throughout his exile, he had drafted the Empire’s path to sure subjugation of the known universe. His father’s foolish love for brute strength over silver tongues had no place in an Empire that would survive the End Days, when the universe tore like a fabric that had stretched too far. There were other universes the Empire would overtake before this reality expired, but Lotor’s plans for those alternate timelines were premature.

His active plans were to overrule his father. No act his father had instated was untouchable. If he disagreed with a made decision, which he often did, he overturned it with his own. He had already met with the rulers of several Empire-ruled planets and negotiated the removal of his father’s prisons, slave camps, and soldiers in exchange for unwavering loyalty to the New Empire, which Lotor had yet to name.

“Calling it the Galra Empire won’t do,” he had told the matriarch of Xuter, a forested planet turned barren by his father’s inconsiderate logging. “My father’s vision was of an Empire fronted by pure-blood Galra and built on the backs of a subservient other. His tainted beliefs led him to his deathbed. My vision is one of a unified Empire that will bear a name shared by all. Do you have any suggestions, Your Majesty?”

“Call it what you may,” the matriarch had said, her flower-shaped ears blossoming in her cool confidence. “I only desire life for my people. Our forests are dying. Our food sources dwindling. Show us your word is true, and we will ally ourselves with your New Empire.”

His father’s irresponsible rule had destroyed many planets, making them easy to takeover. As much as Lotor despised the barbarian tactics of destruction and forced compliance, his father’s rule had been necessary. If the planets weren’t so devastated, so desperate for relief, Lotor wouldn’t have dozens of planets already aligned with his New Empire. He would make them strong again. Forests would grow, children would have full bullies and the energy to attend school, and nobody would be forced into labor camps.

When the planets regained what they had lost, they would see the Empire as a true ally. Their loyalty would be stronger than their fear of Lotor’s father. They would view the Empire as a liberator, a gateway to better life. They would believe they ruled themselves, free of influence, and they wouldn’t consider the possibility their leaders weren’t truly of their choosing. After rising from the dirt so smoothly and with the Empire’s help, they wouldn’t question the truth beneath the rose: the thorns. Why look for problems when the food and trees and children were growing?

Lotor’s forces were helping to rebuild destroyed societies, and he monitored their progress with the assistance of his generals.

“Word on Xuter?” Lotor said from the command chair as his generals entered the bridge of his cruiser. He knew Ezor and Acxa would come to his right, Zethrid and Narti to his left. Their footsteps meshed together into a pleasant chorus, but he could pick them apart. The softest steps were Narti’s, the firm ones with longer intervals between feet were Zethrid’s, and Ezor’s were the casual stride of someone with the utmost confidence.

“Xuter is pleased with its progress,” Acxa said.

“Excellent.” Lotor expected nothing less.

“The trees are massive, thicker than this ship,” Ezor said. “And the branches are strong enough to support buildings--and Zethrid’s ground smash.”

Lotor perked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“They shouldn’t be called branches,” Zethrid said, offended. “Branches snap.”

“I bet it’d snap if we crashed a ship into it,” Ezor said.

“Their infrastructure is nearly rebuilt, and such disasters would be curtly tended to.” Acxa went to the command board and tapped at the keyboard, opening a dual-screen video recorded from the arms of the ship Lotor had built from the alternate reality’s comet. The ship had flown around Xuter’s capital city, capturing the rebirth of a forest world. Hovercraft transported supplies and builders to construction sites on branches and inside the hollows of the giant trees. The completed residencies built into the shell of the trunks had wide windows that showed the small living spaces of the Xuterans, a winged people who viewed the outside world as a truer home than one enclosed by walls. 

The skyscraping trees of Xuter were unlike those that grew on other planets, not only because of their size. Their bark and sap and leaves could be synced with Galra technology. Their lifewriting, the complex codes of chemicals that directed their functioning, could be hacked. Galra scientists had experimented on the felled trees provided by enslaved Xuterans, forced by Zarkon’s ruthless soldiers to cut down their own trees, trying to fuse them with weapons and ships. The vision was of self-repairing tech.

To gain the Xuterans’ trust, Lotor had cut off the logging, and thus, limited the scientists’ experiments to already logged material. Haggar, that nosy witch who would be off Lotor’s advisory panel once his father died, disapproved of obstructing experiments that were progressing rapidly. The Empire did not need plants for rifles and cruisers. The Empire needed the loyalest of allies.

The video ended after circling what appeared to be a cluster of trees grown into each other, crisscrossing their branches to make a woven dome that bubbled outward toward the forest ground.

“This is the matriarch’s residence,” Acxa said. “It also serves as the political hall.”

“All in one place?” Lotor tipped his head onto his fist.

“It’s heavily fortified, the toughest structure on the entire planet,” Zethrid said, “like I’m the toughest of us all.”

Narti’s cat, Kova, yowled in her arms. She stroked its head, reducing it to a puddle of fur and purrs.

“He agrees.” Zethrid laughed.

“You are our bones and muscles,” Lotor said lightly. Too much praise would pump her muscles to explode. “I’ve yet to recover from our match the other day, but keep in mind always that strength isn’t the only answer. Knowledge, stealth, flexibility--those are also vital to any success.”

His generals had their specialties, but they also had other masteries. Ezor had excellent memory for recalling eavesdropped conversations in the tight spaces she weaseled into. Narti’s mind control opened many doors for the Empire, and her sightlessness amplified her other senses. Zethrid’s skill with heavy duty weaponry complemented her superior strength. And Acxa’s hand-to-hand combat was as thorough as her leadership skills.

Lotor was their pathfinder. He told them where to make his road, and they blazed it down for him. Without them, his Empire wouldn’t have the means of quick progress. Their skills and loyalty made Lotor’s life easier, made his plans plausible.

Acxa was watching him, her lips thinned in the way they often were when she was calculating a plan’s likely outcome.

“Does something trouble you?” Lotor said.

Ezor stifled a giggle behind a webbed hand. Zethrid smiled widely.

“What is it?” Lotor almost smiled at Narti angling herself away from Zethrid.

“The Xuteran matriarch invites you to a gala celebrating the rebirth of Xuter,” Acxa said.

Zethrid exploded with a booming laugh. Kova hissed and scrambled from Narti’s arms to her shoulder. Though she was immune to Zethrid’s frequent outbursts of noise, she had to deal with Kova’s sensitivity, and the magnified tremors from Zethrid’s heavy feet.

“I sense there is more to this gala than formalwear and partner dancing,” Lotor said.

“Lotor in one of those leafy Xuteran suits?” Zethrid laughed harder.

Kova cringed into Narti’s shoulder.

This wouldn’t be Lotor’s first gala, though it had been deca-phoebs since the last, and the generals knew he was stern about respecting cultural differences. Customary Galra military attire was never appropriate when most gala attendees were of the same species. When the New Empire made new allies, it didn’t consume them. It built bridges. It treated each ally uniquely, and didn’t place one above the other.

Lotor would respect whatever was customary of Xuter’s gala. If he looked ridiculous in their plant-based garments, he would look ridiculous. And so would his generals. Though, their garments would be discretely tailored for their special abilities. They were more important than Lotor. Everyone saw him. Very few saw his generals.

“The matriarch’s tailor wants to design a gown for you,” Acxa said, her curving lips betraying her usual composed demeanor.

“A gown!” Zethrid howled.

Kova hissed.

“Can you imagine Lotor in a gown?” Zethrid continued, ignoring Kova’s show of discomfort. Narti petted at the cat’s bristled fur. “All that fabric restraining his movement. I can’t imagine. It’s like putting a target on your back. No, on your face.”

“Their gowns are light, easy to maneuver beneath,” Auxa said.

“Flashy and pretty.” Ezor twirled on her toes, arms curved around her chest for balance.

“I will wear whatever is customary,” Lotor said. “Nothing is too restraining. Correspond with the matriarch’s tailor. They can come on board or I can disembark. Whatever pleases them.”

Acxa nodded, no doubt already piecing together her message in her head as she walked to the command board and opened the message panel. Her fingers worked quickly over the projected keyboard.

“I wish we could be prettied up too,” Ezor said, a taste of sourness in her words.

“You already are prettied up.” Lotor smiled.

“Oh, how sweet of you.” Ezor laughed and twirled her colorful headtail around her hand.

Acxa lifted her hands from the keyboard. “The tailor will have you in his personal workroom in the matriarch’s residency. He has too many fabrics to bring here, and he’d like to try them all on you.”

“He responded quickly,” Ezor said, perking an eyebrow.

Acxa opened the tailor’s response on the projected screen. Lotor dragged his eyes over it. For being a quick response, it was eloquently written.

“Xuterans wear their communication devices on their wrists,” Acxa said. “New messages ping them for instant notification.”

“Wonder if we can hack into them and make them explode.” Zethrid tapped a finger to her chin.

Narti could communicate her mood through subtle vibrations of her scaly skin, making the air around her shift, and Lotor knew if she could speak, she would sigh loudly and comment on Zethrid’s trigger-happy tendencies.

“When shall we meet?” Lotor said.

The answer popped on the projected screen, as though the tailor had heard.

“At sunfall, if you’re available.” Acxa said.

“We’ll accept it.”

#

The Xuterans had luxurious accommodations for spacecraft. Caverns woven into residential and commerce trees offered landing spots for commuter vehicles, and the caverns of the matriarch’s residence were even more spacious and accommodating. Lotor’s ship was three times as large as the average Xuteran commuter ship, and was approximately the same size as the royal ships used by the matriarch.

“They really like you,” Ezor said out the corner of her mouth as Lotor’s crew disembarked the ship to the deep bows of the royal shiphands.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?” Lotor smiled at the lowered heads.

Lotor bowed his thanks to the captain of the shiphands, a lovely man with thick blue leaves for hair whose importance was signified by the long tail of his coat, a layered thing of silky petals.

“The tailor will see you,” the captain said, his words sharp with the Xuteran accent.

Lotor and his generals followed the captain into a hallway that the domed ceiling swooped into, giving the impression of a wall-less hangar supported by thick columns of spiraling bark.

The shiphands were engineers, responsible for the upkeep of all the matriarch’s ships, and their work clothes were designed to integrate aesthetics with practicality. Their clothes, woven from Xuter’s massive leaves and stalks and even bark, looked to be grown into their skin, which resembled tree bark turned into flesh.

They were a beautiful people.

From the hallway the captain led them to a wide elevator powered by the tree’s lifewriting. The Xuterans didn’t hack into their planet’s most valuable resource as much as they communed with it, coaxing it into doing their bidding with the innate connection all Xuterans had with nature. Though their bodies only resembled plants shaped into bipedal form and weren’t made of real bark or plant fibers, their minds were chemically attuned to plant life. They strengthened their connection through mindful prayer and meditation, and schooling, as Lotor had learned through Axca’s research of Xuter’s culture.

“Your hair smells lovely,” Lotor said as the elevator came to a smooth stop on a topmost floor. Lotor didn’t know what number it was, or how the elevator knew when to stop, but his thoughts were more occupied with the pure blue petals cascading down the captain’s back.

A perfumy scent flowed from the captain’s petals, made more obvious in the confined space of the elevator.

The stems of the petals seemed to flush pink.

“Thank you, Emperor,” the captain said. “I’m glad you find it pleasing.”

They walked down a hall with a curved ceiling that dangled slender tree roots toward the floor. A warm white-yellow glow crawled down the roots, spirals of energy that Lotor could feel surround him. It was like sunlight kissing his face. Like closing his eyes and feeling the thrum of nature in his bones.

“You feel that?” Zethrid said, walking alongside Ezor behind Lotor. She spoke quietly so the guide couldn’t hear, but Lotor could catch her whispers. “It’s like I’m in another reality. Feels weird. But good. Are they messing with our heads through floating chemicals?”

“Gas, you mean,” Ezor said.

“Same thing.”

“Does this tree produce mood stimulants?” Lotor asked the guide.

“Her Majesty wouldn’t dare think of allowing such manipulation,” the captain said, some offense in his voice.

“I apologize if I’ve offended you,” Lotor said. “Your architecture is so beautiful, I feel as though I’ve transcended reality.”

“I hear you,” the captain said.

Lotor could feel the tension in his generals’ stiffened bodies.

“Do you accept his apology?” Zethrid said.

Lotor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes or sigh too loudly or send Zethrid a silencing look. The Xuterans weren’t a sensitive species, but this captain seemed to poke words for meanings a bit too hard.

“I don’t think he understands what he implies,” the captain said.

One accidental insult and the captain’s petals were bristling. Lotor could see their slight trembling. He could smell the irritation, the frustration lapping off the stems of his petals. It smelled like something rotting, and he wondered if the captain’s biological reaction to stress was activated. The scent probably scared off predators.

“Captain, we’ve stepped off the wrong foot,” Lotor said. “Let’s plant our feet and start anew.”

“Is that a Galra expression?” the captain said. “Stepping off the wrong foot?”

“Is planting our feet a Xuteran expression?”

The captain glanced back with a smile. “Yes, it is.”

Whatever distrust formed between the captain and Lotor dissipated to a tolerable silence broken only when they turned into a small antechamber rounded by chairs and low-standing end tables. A stone receptionist desk with leaf-dotted vines woven around its legs stood in front of two doors. A Xuteran with a flower bush atop her round face looked up from the slips of parchment paper spread on her desk.

“Emperor Lotor and his generals,” the captain said.

The receptionist swept her hand over the desk, activating a holoscreen and keyboard that hovered above the parchment sheets. Her fingers flew over a small square of keys.

“The Master Tailor will now see you,” she said.

#

The Master Tailor was a man of many words. Lotor listened attentively until he realized nothing the man spoke was worthwhile. It was tailor talk. Nothing to concern himself with. His generals sat on stools the tailor pulled out of a closet hidden behind a shimmering veil of leaf fibers.

Lotor stood atop a round platform, stripped to his undergarments. Zethrid had cackled when Lotor was admonished for stripping only to his under armor when instructed by the tailor to undress. The tailor needed to measure to the skin, not fabric, and even the thinnest of fabrics would interfere with precise measurements. The lecture took precious dobashes of his time. He let the tailor manipulate his body for the measurements, killing any desire to fidget or itch by thinking about the upcoming gala.

Exiled princes didn’t attend any royal events. They were sent to distant planets to contemplate their wrongdoings and how they would be wiped from their empire’s history until further notice, which rarely happened. Exiled royalty of other sovereignties often remained as such unless they escaped and formed an alliance with an outside entity. But Lotor’s exile had been so thorough, he’d had no access to any alliances. He had been privy to the resurgence of Voltron, the legendary defender his father had led.

Voltron. Emperor Zarkon’s utmost priority. Prince Lotor’s fail-safe. Should Lotor’s plans disintegrate, he would turn to Voltron. Their lions were of less importance than what they represented to the universe. He knew how to use them, unlike his father, who viewed physical strength as the greatest trait of any warrior. Lotor had much more.

“All done,” the tailor said, winding up his measuring roll. “I already know what I’m doing with you. For a Galra, your skin is quite supple and luminous. I’d like to highlight that with a minimalistic style.”

“He’ll be naked?” Zethrid said.

Ezor snorted behind her hands.

“Not at all.” The tailor smiled at Lotor. It did not reassure him. “The important bits will be covered.”

“I’d be honored,” Lotor said.

He’d do it for his plans.

#

The gala was four quintants later. Four vargas before he was to be announced as an honorary guest, the tailor locked him away in his workroom and fitted the outfit. It wasn’t as revealing as the tailor had led Lotor to believe, but still he felt too exposed with most of his chest uncovered. The tailor had taken inspiration from his galra armor, outfitting him in form-hugging plant fibers for pants and woven petals for a two-tailed coat.

The fabrics were easy to manipulate. Flexible and durable. He’d love to incorporate them to his civilian wardrobe, which he hadn’t opened since Haggar installed him in his father’s place. There wasn’t time to dress down.

He ran his fingers over the soft plant hairs on his pant leg as the Master Hairdresser--an actual royal position, the Master Tailor assured--cleaned his hair and worked it into a complex style woven around flower vines.

His generals waited for him in the Master Tailor’s antechamber. Their stunned looks brought an ancient heat to Lotor’s cheeks. Very ancient. So ancient it took him by surprise. It vanished just as suddenly, and without a word to his comrades, he followed the trio of guards that were assigned to walk them to the gala.

He descended down the stairs that led into the ballroom, his generals and guards boxing him in from the sides and back. They were the last royal guests to arrive. The last arrivals were always the most valued visitors because they would have the most eyes on them. Their presence was deserving of topping off the procession. 

The Xuteran matriarch sat on her throne on a dias protected by armed guards. A messenger stood at her side.

Lotor accepted the sudden attention of the ballroom as he and his generals walked across the dance floor. The crowd parted before them, smooth and unresisting. They knew who he was: the unlikely savior who usurped his tyrant father. Some hated him, and he could feel their stares as he walked to the tables at the outskirts of the room, where guests sat at elegantly grown tables, which were mushrooms with flat tops, and were waited upon by waiters who carried trays of wine flutes and small dishes.

Ezor pointed out an empty table. Situated with his generals, Lotor sent away all but two of his guards. Dismissing them all would suggest that he didn’t trust the matriarch’s guards to overhear his conversations. Xuter and the New Empire were allies now. They trusted each other.

Zethrid crooked a claw at a waiter, causing him to spend the next few minutes introducing the various servings on his tray. Lotor inquired about the waiter’s favorites, to which the waiter chuckled and said everything was too good for discrimination. So Lotor and his generals helped themselves to everything. Together the small servings acted as a meal. Lotor ate until he felt the beginnings of fullness. He rested at the table, chatting with his generals and the ball attendees who stopped by the table to thank him for freeing them from his father’s unforgiving grip. His generals left the table, one by one, to mingle with the guests on the ballroom floor. Lotor remained at the table.

The last gala he had attended was to announce his coming of age to the Galra Empire. It had also been a poorly masked attempt to marry him off to one or two of the many unwed heirs and heiresses of Galra-controlled planets. His father wanted him out of sight, out of mind, but always within grasp.

He had never desired anybody, and none of his admirers would ever draw his eye. The gala had ended with Lotor on nobody’s arm.

Though Lotor had a couple of guards at his attendance, he didn’t feel cooped in this crowded ballroom. He was to give a speech in a few moments, and he felt no pressure to deliver. Xuter trusted him. They shouldn’t. But they had been chained for long, anyone who freed them would earn their respect. Freedom had its own chains.

“Excuse me.”

Lotor looked to the man who had spoken. A young man. His skin was brown, his eyes were dark blue, and his dark hair puffed around his head in waves. He appeared to be Altean, but his ears were rounded and he lacked facial markings.

“Yes?” Lotor said.

The man smiled. He seemed to be younger than Lotor, actually. His smile was confident. So was his attire: a three-piece suit that was as white as the distant stars.

“Your Majesty, may I have the honor of a dance?” The man bowed, his face tipped up to keep his eyes on Lotor’s. In some cultures, that was a sign of aggression. In Galra culture, the man was saying he didn’t trust Lotor enough to look away.

Lotor stood and the man straightened. Their height difference was such that when they arranged their hands for the dance, it was easier for Lotor to rest his hands on the man’s shoulders and for the man keep his hands on Lotor’s waist.

They danced formally, their bodies close enough to brush, far enough to stay modest. It was the simplest of couple dances, swaying and stepping, inching across the floor.

“What is your name?” Lotor said.

The man smiled. A dimple popped in his cheek. “Lance. Like the weapon.”

Lotor let himself smile, though his instincts warned him to stay on his guard. The man’s eyes were a deep blue, like the greatest seas in the universe. Peaceful, but violent beneath.

“You are not Xuteran. You seem to have Altean blood, though not completely,” Lotor said.

“I’m a mix.” Lance pulled Lotor into a longer step toward the center of the floor.

“A tourist?”

“Something like that. I’m a traveler. No roots to speak of. What’s it like for the Great Emperor Pro Tempore? How many holiday homes do you own?”

“Holiday homes?”

“For vacation.”

“An Emperor is never on vacation. He is always working on behalf of his empire. My home is my ship. Until the universe is at peace, will call my ship my home. Where is yours?”

Lance didn’t lean away from the sharpness of Lotor’s voice, as others did. He leaned closer, his lips curling mischievously like he had tricked Lotor into trapping himself with a cage of his own words.

“The universe will never be at peace,” Lance said. “There will always be conflicts. Always be wars. You’ll never get there.”

“I only mean to establish a single, unifying entity that all planets can trust.”

“Like a Big Brother?”

Lotor had never heard of that term. He assumed it was derogatory.

“Like a symbol of stability. The empire will let every planet rule itself in exchange for a small tax that will accumulate to fund rebuilding war-torn planets, establishing new settlements, and providing for displaced families. The universe will become safer, peaceful, and will last until the End Days.”

As Lotor spoke, Lance’s stubborn grin weakened to an uncertain press of his lips.

“You don’t believe in the cause,” Lotor said.

“How do I know you’re not your father?”

Lotor pulled Lance close so he could speak in a lower voice. “I will die before I become my father. He is a coward. A fool.” He dropped his voice to a growl. “Abuser. I will not have his touch taint the universe any longer.”

He released Lance, who stepped away from Lotor. They stood at the center of the floor, untouching, the only people who weren’t dancing.

“Who are you?” Lotor said.

“Enjoy the party.” Lance vanished into the tide of dancers.

Lotor stood for a while, watching the spot where Lance had stood.

“Who was that pretty thing?” Ezor said, appearing next to Lotor.

“I think he’s part Altean.”

“No…” Ezor tilted her head and followed Lotor’s gaze, regarding the air as if Lance was still standing there. “That’s impossible. His species might resemble Alteans. Or maybe he’s a mix, like us. But I doubt he’s Altean. That’s impossible, unless he was put in a tube like you.”

Lotor’s vision became pinpricks of color. His breaths became heavy.

“Oh darn, Lotor, I’m sorry.” Ezor touched his elbow. “I wasn’t thinking at all. I was so shocked about the boy, I forgot--”

Lotor returned to his table, his vision smoothing out after he cleared the rush of dancers. His skin was coated in a light sweat.

A guard helped him to his seat and asked if he wanted to be taken to the infirmary. He’d be well taken care of, and he’d have nothing to worry about. The healers were the best on the planet.

“There is nothing to worry about.” Lotor watched the bodies flow and ebb on the floor.

That boy…

Lotor would find him again. He would get answers.

That boy…

Perhaps a rebellious prince. Or...perhaps a rebel.

He would find out.

**Author's Note:**

> FWIW, I wrote this before Lotor's characterization Went There.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
